


this poet lies

by Lyncias



Series: a heaven drowsy with harmony [2]
Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: A little bit of Magical Realism, Angst, Character Death, M/M, One Shot, POV First Person, POV Original Character, if it's called that, im sad, kind of alludes to being idols but not really?, kinda sad, many-years-later AU, tbh you can't even tell what ship I'm trying to get at, why do I keep writing things so late at night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 18:13:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15148943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyncias/pseuds/Lyncias
Summary: Strange letters began arriving on my doorsteps a few days after my grandfather Nazuna's birthday.Inspired by Shakespeare's Sonnet 17





	this poet lies

**Author's Note:**

> Told from the perspective of a grandchild OC who doesn't have a name.
> 
> Remember when I wanted to do a whole thing based on Shakespearean sonnets? Probably not but it never really happened and then more than a year later this happened. Two works are not related, just written in a similar style. I wanna write more using this writing style with different ships so let me know if you wanna see more!!
> 
> Also this took me so long to finish?? Like I've never really written anything like this before and the writing style is kind of new to me so it is an Experience. This is my trash daughter, please love her (jkjk).
> 
> Thank you for clicking and I hope you enjoy!

_Who will believe my verse in time to come,_

_If it were filled with your most high deserts?_

—

The letters began arriving at my doorsteps three days after my grandfather Nazuna’s seventieth birthday.

The letters arrived in aged envelopes no larger than my palm. When I held it up to my nose, the envelopes smelled like lily-of-the-valley. There were no return address or postmarks on the yellowing paper, only a single name written in dark red ink with flowing cursive. Nito. It was my last name as well, but I knew it wasn’t for me. In fact, it felt wrong for me to even hold the letter, like I’m intruding on a great secret by simply knowing the letter’s existence. For a few moments, I regretted picking up the letter. I should have left it in the mailbox.

I couldn’t think of anyone who would send letters to him. He lived a secluded life, spending his days painting his dreams, humming to himself, and, once in a while, he goes down the hill and takes a stroll in the forest behind the house. The last time I saw him leave the premise of this house was many years ago.

The house creaked as I made my way up the old stairs, carpeted with dark red wool. The house creaked, whispering of secrets. I knew exactly where he would be right now.

“Nazuna?” I called, knocking softly on the thick wooden door of his study. He had always insisted on me using his actual name instead of calling him grandfather. It took me years to realize other people do not do the same. A few moments later, I heard the soft ruffling of clothes and the familiar, gentle shuffle of Nazuna’s footstep. The door opened without a noise.

“Yes?” Nazuna asked, poking his head out. He held a paintbrush in his hand. The paintbrush was dipped in dark red paint. Dark red like the ink used on the envelope.

“There’s a letter for you,” I said. I held out the letter and saw him frown. The letter was hot and heavy in my hands. Nazuna took the letter and when he saw the name on the letter, his hands started to tremble. He looked up, his eyes filled with mournful sorrow. I had never seen him like that. I was right, I thought, horrified, this is a secret I should not have stumbled upon.

“Thank you, dear,” he said softly. He smiled at me, but I know him enough to tell that it wasn’t a genuine smile. I took a step forward and opened my mouth, but no words came. When I finally decided on what to say, he had already stepped away from the light of the hallway, his golden hair was dull in the gloom of the study. I wanted to knock again, to press on and get an answer out of him, but I couldn’t. The door closed with a long sigh.

The old house creaked around me as I made my way downstairs. When I thought of Nazuna and his eyes when he saw the writing on the letter, so gentle and mournful, my heart felt heavy. I wanted to go back to the study, to speak to him, to ask him who had written the letter. Instead, my limbs carried me down those long, winding stairs like I was a marionette on strings and no matter how much I want to, I cannot disobey my master.

—

At first, the letters would arrive far apart from each other. One would arrive and by the time the next letter is found on our doorstep, its predecessor would already be forgotten. Nazuna never shared any of the letters with me. I knew that he had every right to keep it away from me, to make the content of those yellowing envelops his own, but I felt the burning urge to know what those letters said. I came so close to asking him a few times, but I couldn’t. I felt unreasonably angry, but not because he was withholding things from me, but because I felt entitled to know things he had all the rights in the world to keep from me.

Were they from old acquaintances long forgotten, old rivals that are now more friends than foe? Or were they a secret he kept when he was young, finally caught up to him like hounding wolves? Or were they from a lover that was left in Nazuna’s past, a love never quite forgotten but was stifled by some opposition I cannot imagine?

I thought perhaps it couldn’t be the last one. Nothing about those letters suggested romantic ties, yet in my mind it automatically became long-lost love letters, arriving fifty years too late.

I’ve never met my grandmother. She had died to give my mother life. My knowledge of her stopped at a portrait that hung in the living room of the old house, painted by Nazuna himself. She was far from stunningly beautiful, with soft-looking brown hair and gentle eyes the color of amethysts, but she was warm. From the way she smiled, I could tell she was loving. I imagined that if she had lived, she’d be the kind of grandmothers that bake sugary cookies and knit gloves by the fireplace.

By all accounts, Nazuna had loved her. Though, it still wasn’t a lot of accounts. He never married again after her death, against what every advice he had, and raised my mother by himself. My mother taught me at a young age to never bring up my grandmother in Nazuna’s presence.

It upsets him, she had said. Like the topic was a rose that suddenly turns into a viper when you pick it up.

I had seen it once. After dinner one day, we were chatting mindlessly and, somehow, my mind wandered to the soft woman whose portrait, to me, had become the silent sentinel of this house. Despite my mind telling me otherwise, my tongue had its own ideas.

I’ve never seen Nazuna recoil at a topic so fast and so drastically. The smile was wiped off of his face and he withdrew from me. It only took a few more minutes of awkward small talks for him to excuse himself and disappeared into the darkness of the house.

I had always thought that he loved her. I took his dejectedness as a sign that he loved her so much he couldn’t bear thinking about her, even after all these years. Yet now, for some reason, I became unsure.

Time always seemed to flow differently while at the house. Before I knew it, Nazuna’s birthday was approaching again. By then, it had been almost two years since the arrival of the first letter.

Nazuna never really liked his birthdays. He said it made him feel aged and he didn’t like that. He said he’d rather pass obliviously through life than to be reminded of his own growing fragility. As if a gift, the letters began to arrive on a more regular basis. Three months before his birthday, a letter arrives almost every week. A month before, one arrived almost every day.

The strange letters drew him out of the dark study he spends so much of his time in. My mother and I had been trying for many years to get him out of the house, but the letters worked better than both of us together. Nazuna picked up the habit of taking long strolls again. He would leave every day after breakfast, tipping his hat as he walks past me, and often not return until well into the afternoon.

I didn’t ask him where he was going. I was glad that he was getting more sun and more exercise. He didn’t like admitting it, but he was getting older. Sitting in a gloomy study all day was not the best thing for his health.

With Nazuna out, I found myself suddenly alone, something I do not often get. I relished those moments. As much as I loved my grandfather, loneliness was the place where I was born and raised. The silence was the substance I draw my strength from and found solace in.

I spent most of my free time in the library, running my fingers over the dusty pages of ancient books. Sunlight cut through the windows and would set the entire library ablaze with brilliance, bouncing off of the decorations that had been hanging on the walls for as long as I can remember. Golden gears and cogs with delicate wings of fairies, thin chains draped over burnt red curtains, threads as thin as marionette strings woven together expertly into a canopy above.

I was searching for a copy of Poetic Edda when I stumbled upon a dusty album, placed carefully on the top of a shelf, well out of sight. I dragged the album over to me and held it close to my chest as I moved down the ladder. The dust rubbed off on my shirt and made my eyes water.

It was clearly old, from before I was even born. It was covered in a thick layer of dust I couldn’t completely remove using just my hands. Under the grey dust, a glimpse of gold glittered under the sunlight. A few careful wipes with a damp cloth revealed intricate borders drawn onto the leather cover, lined carefully with gold ink.

I opened the album, smelling age and darkness. Under the thick scent of dust, I caught a whiff of sweetness that smelled, inexplicably, like candy.

On the front was a line of poetry, written in flowing hands with aged ink. _We sang well victory songs for the young kings, hail to our singing*._ It didn’t take me long to recognize the writing. It was the same hand that wrote my grandfather’s name on dozens of yellowing envelopes.

My interest peaked. Nazuna never spoke of his past, not even mentioning old friends. I knew that whatever, or whoever, I will find in the album would hold the key to answering the question that had been haunting me.

The photos were washed with time, the colors faded as if the photos were placed under the sunlight. Three young men stood next to each other, their proud heads held high like the world was theirs to take. Even from the faded photo, I could see the glittering light above them. The tops of their heads disappeared into the blinding light like they were glorious celestial creatures descending from the heavens.

I touched the photo carefully, flinching away as soon as I felt the smooth surface under my fingers, afraid that the picture to crumble to dust.

The youth to the left had pale pink hair and purple eyes that reminded me of my grandmother’s portrait. He was looking at the two next to him the way an artist looks at his greatest work—with adoration and amazement that can never be found elsewhere.

To the right with a young man with raven dark hair and mismatching eyes that jumped off the photo. His blue and yellow eyes reminded me of a black cat Nazuna brought home once when I was young. Something about him felt familiar, a shadow swimming in the murky depth of my memories. When I dipped my hands in to catch it, it would flip through my fingers with the ease of an expert who had evaded capture for years.

And in the middle of the two, wearing a smile that was not quite like any other I’ve ever seen, least of all on him, was Nazuna. I stared at him. His smile shone through the faded photo and was so beautiful I felt my breath hitch in my throat. I felt a pang of jealousy towards the other two and any other who had the luck to witness a smile like that in person.

I looked up from the album just in time for a single blade of light to cut through the gloom that has gathered around me and shone right into my eyes. I snapped my eyes shut. The light burned a spot on my vision and, for some reason, I felt like crying.

—

It was only a few days after I returned the album to its shadowy hiding place on top of the bookshelf.

When I came downstairs to prepare dinner that day, Nazuna was in the dining room. He was wearing his favorite coat, a finely made but worn piece, and was putting on his hat.

Seeing me, he gave me a small wave with the cherrywood cane that arrived on his birthday a few years ago. It was a cane made by Itsuki Design and something none of us could afford. I still don’t know who had sent it. He treasured that cane, never taking it out and always polishing it, keeping it close to his bed at night. It looked newer than when it had arrived at our door. I once jokingly asked him why he was treating it so well and he had only smiled. This is the first time I actually saw him using it.

“Evening, dear,” he said. “How are you doing?”

“I’m well,” I said, “you?”

“Never better,” he said spritely. I haven’t heard him speaking like this in a long time. “I’m heading out.”

“Oh,” I said, so surprised I couldn’t even think of a reply for a moment. He never puts on hats when going out on his usual small stroll through the woods. He was going somewhere else, maybe even into the town. It had been a long time since he did that. “Where are you going?” I added hurriedly as silence filled the air in the dining room.

“Into town,” he said. “To meet a-an old friend.” He grinned at me, perhaps hoping that I didn’t catch the pause, but I knew him well enough to know. He was hiding something. “I won’t be back for dinner, I think,” he added. “Don’t wait up for me.”

“You’re going to be alright?” I asked.

“Of course,” he reassured me, “why wouldn’t I be?”

I shrugged. I walked over and gave him a quick hug. “Be careful,” I said.

“I will.” And with that, he left the kitchen with steps so light for a second it seemed like he didn’t even need a cane. I heard the front door open and close, then I hurried to the window that was ajar. I heard the car before I saw it. The dark car looked dull in the purple dusk, its hood spotted with white marks left behind by the recent rain. I stood by the window for a few seconds before grabbing my coat and hurrying out after him.

It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him. But he was getting older now and for some reason, I felt compelled to follow him, like he was an unknowing guide leading me to treasures I’ve been searching for for years. It felt so wrong following him, invading his privacy so casually for my own benefits, but I couldn’t stop myself. The secret those letters and that album held became a puppet master and I am the puppet it made dance on its strings.

The evening was chilled. A breeze blew in my face, tugging at my hair. It was carrying the distinct scent of woods after rain, of grass and mud that seemed to clear my lungs. I took the other car, an old thing that hadn’t seen the light of day since last winter. I coughed as I inserted the key into the ignition, praying that the car will start. The poor beast rumbled for a few torturous seconds, then gasped to life. I breathed a sigh of relief.

The car lurched forward as I stepped down on the gas pedal. The seat felt more like a slab of rock under me. I winced as I turned the car onto the driveway. No wonder Nazuna took my car. I wouldn’t want to drive to town in this, either, if I were him.

The road was completely abandoned when I drove into town. When I first moved here, I was slightly unsettled by the quietness of the town, but now I’ve grown accustomed to the silence. Plus, the empty street made finding Nazuna an easy job for me. It only took me a few minutes to spot the car parked in front of the cafe, next to a silver car I’ve never seen before.

I parked in front of the inn down the street, hiding behind a large green truck. I hopped out of the car, pulling the hat of my hood over my eyes and hurrying across the street towards the cafe.

I saw Nazuna through the cafe’s window as I approached. He was seated with his back to the door and in a corner where, thankfully, would be very hard for him to see who was coming in. He was gripping his cane. Across from him was a man with dark hair peppered with white. As I passed the window, still staring at them, his eyes flickered towards me as if he had sensed my gaze. I lowered my head hurriedly, afraid that he’d point me out to Nazuna when I walk in.

A bell chimed as I walked into the cafe. I cringed, taking a fast step and sat down on a table where I was certain could not be seen by Nazuna and the stranger. The waiter, who was a friend of mine, was polishing a glass next to the bar. He recognized me and was about to greet me when I raised a finger to my lips and made a low shush. Perhaps confused by my action, he walked over to my table.

I tugged on his sleeve, telling him to sit down.

“How’s the big house?” he asked, plopping down next to me.

“Still standing,” I said in hushed whispers, still staring across the cafe at my grandfather and his old friend.

“You’re acting weird. What are you doing?” he asked, polishing the spotless glass.

I pointed at the table in the corner.

“Your grandfather?” he said, surprised.

I nodded. “Yeah,” I said.

“That’s rare,” he commented. “Don’t see him a lot. Why don’t you go sit with him? I need the table, you know.”

“You have a total of four people in here,” I said drily. “I’m sure there will be enough space for the dinner rush.” He made a face but didn’t object. “Hey,” I said, turning to him. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure,” he said with a wink. “Command and I shall obey.”

I rolled my eyes. “Go hang around my grandfather a bit,” I said, “tell me what they’re saying.”

“You want me to go eavesdrop on your grandpa.”

“I think I made that plenty clear.”

He sighed. “Alright, I guess,” he said. “He better not thump me on the head with that stick.”

“He’s not that kind of person,” I reassured him. “Oh, and get me some water. Thanks.”

He got up and filled up the glass he had been polishing. He set the glass of water on the table and said, “you sure you want me to…?” He gestured towards the corner table. I nodded.

I watched him get up and move over to the bar, grabbing another glass. He inched closer to Nazuna’s table, eyeing me once every few seconds. I shook my head, pointing at him and at the table. Don’t look at me, I mouthed. That didn’t help. He had stolen cars when we were both in high school, but now he was afraid of eavesdropping on an old man. I’d find that amusing if I wasn’t so keen on knowing what my grandfather was doing.

I stared at the stranger. The faint sound of voices carried across the room, broken bits, and pieces, shattered fragments of words. My friend turned to me, concerned.

Were they arguing? I found that foreign and strange. I’ve never even seen Nazuna raise his voice before. He was a more patient parent to me than my own.

My friend hurried back over and sat down next to me. “They’re arguing,” he said. “Well, it’s more like the other guy’s just… firing words at your grandpa.”

“What are they saying?”

“Something about a guy they’re calling, um, teacher or something,” he said, scratching his head. “Mentioned something about meeting each other. Something about him being a traitor.”

The sound of the chair scraping on the ground and falling over was explosive in the quiet cafe. I jumped, feeling my stomach lurching in horror. I cowered behind my friend, worried that it was Nazuna, finally growing angry. What would he think if he sees me here? How would I explain myself?

Instead, it was the stranger who stood. His thin frame was shaking. His chest heaved as he pointed at my grandfather. I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on its end when I saw his two mismatched eyes.

“You’re the one that betrayed us,” he said. His voice was quivering and he sounded like he was about to burst into tears. He wiped his eyes angrily and let his hands fall back to his sides. He took a step back, still staring at Nazuna. His soft voice carried across the room and echoed to the beat of my thumping heart. “It was you,” he said, “it was you, Nazu-na.” I heard a clear pause when he said my grandfather’s name, as if he wanted to call him something else but changed his mind at the last minute. “You were the one that left,” he said. Even all the way across the room, I could hear the venom and the pain in his voice. I saw Nazuna recoiled as if bitten by a snake. The man backed away from the table, angrily rubbing his eyes when his back was facing Nazuna. Nazuna didn’t try to stop him.

He left the cafe with quick steps. As he was reaching for the door, his eyes found mine. We both froze. I felt as if I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes, gone as fast as it had appeared. Then the corner of his lips tugged, almost into a smile, then the bells chimed and the door slammed shut behind him.

I opened my mouth but no words came out. My friend quietly whispered to me a goodbye and slipped away into the kitchen. Nazuna’s shoulder slumped over and he buried his face in his hands. He looked so frail and small like this. When in the house, he wore the illusion of being the same strong grandfather that raised me. Here in the harsh light of the cafe, that illusion was stripped away.

I wanted to go over and wrap my arms around his shoulders, to comfort him the way he did every time I woke up screaming in the middle of the night. But there was no way to explain me being there.

So instead of going over to him, instead of supporting him the way I should have, I quietly stood and slipped out of the door. As I glided down the street towards the car, I cursed myself and felt, more at that moment than any other time in my life, like a complete and utter coward.

—

I never thought I’d lose him so soon.

The morning I found him in his bed felt different. The air in the house was stagnant and the shadows that usually lurked in the corners of the rooms became bold, their misty tendrils reaching into the sunlight pooled on the ground. The gloom I once found comfort in became suffocating. When I threw open all the windows in the house, no wind came through despite the soft breeze ruffling through the leaves of the forest not so far away.

Something oppressive had settled over the house, pressing down with its big paws, hellbent on crushing everything.

Dread crept into my heart as I approached Nazuna’s bedroom. He had always been a man of discipline. Me waking up before him was as rare. Having to go knock on his door because he wasn’t up had only happened once before, and that was because I had tired him out too much with my crying and screaming during the night.

When I approached his door, dread had settled on my shoulders like two dark ravens, their talons digging into my flesh, gripping my heart in their claws. I knocked three times and called his name. I pressed my ear to the door, listening for the soft thud of the bedposts knocking against the wall whenever someone moves, praying for the creaking of the floorboards and the familiar shuffling of my grandfather’s steps.

Instead, I heard only silence.

I knocked again and still heard no response. I tried the door and found it locked from the inside. He never locks his door. The dread on my shoulder had burrowed a hole into me and settled in my stomach. I took a step back and, with a deep breath, threw my shoulder against the door.

The force ripped a chunk off of the door frame and I burst into the room amid the splinters and dust. I coughed, my eyes watering as the dust got into them. Nazuna loved the house. I prayed that he would wake up and berate me.

He didn’t.

He was lying on his bed, wearing his pale blue pajamas. A blade of sunlight sliced through the half-drawn curtain and landed on his face. The light seemed to have the ability to reverse time. It erased the tiny wrinkles that had always bothered him and left only the face I saw once in the old album in the library. My body shook as I knelt down at his bedside.

“Grandpa?” I called. It was the first time I called him grandpa in a long time and it came out like a strangled whimper. I reached for his hand and pulled back, burned by the coldness of his skin.

No tears came to my eyes then, but I heard the sound of my world crumbling.

—

His funeral was held in town and he was to be buried in the churchyard he was so fond of.

It was surrounded by trees and stood against a mountain. I was thankful that someone would always be looking over him, especially once I am gone.

Nazuna was never religious, but he had loved spending his time there. When I was younger, he’d take me there on weekends. We would help the church give out soup and bread to the unfortunate. He would sometimes sing for the children at the church’s daycare. Everyone loved his singing. The pastor had once said it was like hearing the voice of an angel. And so, the church made an exception and allowed him to be buried there. That was one good thing about living in a small town. Exceptions were a lot easier to make.

It was a large funeral, for a town this size.

Except for the townspeople, I didn’t know who to invite. The man with the mismatched eyes had come to mind first when I was writing the invitations to the funeral, but I didn’t know how to contact him. In fact, now that he was gone, I realized for the first time how little I knew about Nazuna. The only piece of his past was that album, and it won’t do me any good finding his friends, even if I had enough energy to retrieve from the library. So, in the end, I only sent out letters to the townspeople.

Still, his old friends came.

I didn’t know how the news had reached them. When I arrived at the church that day, wearing the black veil that was too big for me at my mother’s funeral but fits perfectly for this one, they were outside. All clad in black, standing silently as if waiting for something.

Something about his old friends felt familiar. A fish that had been lurking in a murky pond was threatening to jump out onto the land. I recognized a few, or at least I thought I did, from the album in the library. I lowered my head and hurried towards the church. I knew they saw me and I knew, somehow, they had recognized me. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw the man with the mismatched eyes standing there with his arms crossed. When he saw me, he had looked surprised.

The funeral felt like an eternity and passed in the blink of an eye. I couldn’t remember if my voice had cracked when I gave the eulogy.

At the cemetery, I stood at the front, right next to the coffin, holding a small white rose. Sunlight kissed my hair and it felt cold. Someone next to me squeezed my hand, but I couldn’t remember who it was. The rose’s thorns dug into my palm. The pastor’s speech sounded so rehearsed like he was simply reciting the script for the hundredth time. I wanted to grab him, to shake him, asked why he didn’t write anything original. Nazuna deserved at least that. But I couldn’t move.

I tried not to look at anything other than the small plot of land. I tried not to think about his small frame, hunched over, his face buried in his hands. I tried not to think about how I had failed him.

I wanted to leave so badly after the funeral, so I can go home and curl up in his bed and cry, but I couldn’t. This was the last chance I had to connect with his past and his past is all he left me. So as the guests streamed out of the cemetery, each gripping my hands and giving their condolences through teary eyes, I remained, wearing a textbook smile that made my face ached.

Finally, the only people remaining were me and Nazuna’s old friends. They were standing among the scattered headstones, their eyes downcast as if reading the names and dates beaten away by time, but I knew they were waiting for me. And when they saw I was done with the last of the townspeople, they seemed to have a silent agreement as to who will greet me first.

I watched as one of them walked towards me. He was tall and had red hair peppered with white. His green eyes looked almost animalistic, yet there was something gentle about him. When he spoke, calmness washed over me.

As he walked closer, I realized how tall he was, but I didn’t feel intimidated. His hand was strong and steady.

“You didn’t cry,” he remarked. For a moment, I felt embarrassed. But I saw no trace of blame in his face. He squeezed out a small smile and said, “it is for the best, I think. He doesn’t… didn’t like it when people cry. He felt too much, you know.”

“I-I think so,” I said, nodding. It was true. If I had cried, Nazuna would feel obligated to come back to life to comfort me. That thought, for some reason, made my eyes sore. I rubbed them and my hands came away damp. The tall man with red hair patted me on the shoulder hesitantly, then pulled out of small, white handkerchief.

“Here,” he said. “Take this. Dry your eyes.”

I thanked him and accepted the handkerchief gingerly. It was soft with a small name stitched onto the corner. He patted my head, his warmth reaching me through my hair. Then he turned to leave, the gravel crunching softly under his shoes. I gripped tight to the handkerchief as he disappeared around the corner and it wasn’t until he was completely gone did I realize I had forgotten to ask for his name.

The next two men that came up to me were smaller in stature and reminded me, in a way, of Nazuna. One had shoulder-length blue hair that was tied into a low ponytail. Another had cropped brown hair that was barely frosted. The two stopped in front of me, silently and carefully tracing my features with their eyes.

“You look like him,” finally, the one with long hair said, his voice as soft as the whispers of the wind. I was slightly taken aback by that comment. No one had ever told me I looked like Nazuna. “He would be proud of you, I think,” he continued. “I’m Hajime, by the way.”

“I’m Mitsuru,” the taller one said, shaking my hand. He looked as around the sound of children’s voice drifted over. “He would be happy here. He had always loved children.” Mitsuru smiled a melancholic smile.

Somehow, I noticed that Hajime was wearing a ring but Mitsuru wasn’t. I wasn’t sure what prompted the question, which was completely inappropriate, from me. “Are you two…” my words died off. Mitsuru and Hajime glanced at each other, then shook their heads.

“No,” Mitsuru said. “He’s… well, married to an old friend of ours. Of your grandfather’s, too.”

Hajime nodded. “Speaking of,” he said, pulling out a small locket from his pocket. He pressed it into my hand. “This is from… that old friend of ours,” he said. His lips quivered. “He couldn’t be here today, so he asked me to bring this.”

The locket was heavy and I feel the groves of engravings. I opened my mouth to say I shouldn’t be the one to keep it, but he cut me off, shaking his head.

“I-I just… I want you to have it,” he said. “That will be enough.” He squeezed my hands and smiled. The two of them backed away and hurried out of the cemetery. Hajime walked with a soft shuffle that reminded me of Nazuna.

When the man with the mismatched eyes walked over, I was also too shocked to say anything. When he stopped before me, I thought I had stepped through a painting and was talking to someone imaginary.

“I should’ve known,” he said. His voice had a small hint of an accent I couldn’t quite place. “You were there when I came a few weeks ago.”

I felt my face burning. “Sorry,” I said hurriedly, “for, you know. Eavesdropping.”

“It’s fine,” he said with a small shrug. “It was nothing top secret.” He held out his hand. “I’m Mika, by the way.”

His hand was cold and soft. Reminded me of Nazuna. A moment of somber silence descended upon us.

“You’re wondering about what we talked about, I assume?” Mika asked. I nodded nervously. He smiled and retrieved a bundle of letters bounded by thin, fraying cords. He handed the bundle to me. “There are many things we hope we can change, my dear,” he said, looking at the letters. “But couldn’t. We can only live for so long and, I think, not long enough to hate someone.

“We knew each other well, your grandfather and I. Many years ago, he had left us to pursue a different path. I’ve never quite forgiven him for leaving, but over the years, I think… I think I was beginning to understand. After I spoke with him last time, I came to realize he had suffered for his decision as well. Perhaps it wasn’t the punishment I had in mind, but it was nevertheless punishment and to him, it was perhaps much worse than what I could have done.” He reached over and placed a gentle hand on my cheek.

“You really do look a lot like him,” Mika said. “I think I should have known who you were back when I saw you in that cafe.” He let his hand dropped back to his side and looked as if he was about to leave. I took a quick step forward and grabbed his hand with the desperation of a drowning man grasping at driftwood.

“Wait,” I said, “wait. Please. Tell me who the letters are from.”

He paused, as if hesitating, then said, “a friend of ours. He was the one that brought us together and ultimately, part of the reason we fell apart. He is ill now, which is why he isn’t the one giving you these letters. He wanted to be here. He took the news pretty hard.” Mika sighed. “I think that, even now, he loves Nazuna. I don’t think he had ever stopped loving Nazuna, even though he was so sure Nazuna had stopped loving him. So many things he wishes he could have done, so many things he could have said. I didn’t tell Nazuna any of it, but I think he knew. Somewhere deep inside, they both knew.”

I licked my lips and tasted blood. “What is his name?” I asked. A breeze blew across the empty cemetery. My mind jumped to the cherrywood cane that showed up at our doorstep all those years ago and the company that had produced it. I knew before the words left Mika’s lips.

“Shu,” Mika said with great difficulty, “Shu Itsuki.”

—

I shut myself away in the house for four days, reading those letters like a fervent zealot. The yellowed paper held a certain magnetism. It sank its teeth into my heart. Every time I put it down, my body ached to read more. The letters became a spell that commanded chains, tying me down until I finish every last word.

At first, it felt more like a story, a fairytale. It stepped out of the grainy, dust past and stood before me with its arms outstretched, baring all of its secrets. When I read those words, it conjured up images of a time forgotten, when lovers would sing their songs of love and reach for each other through glittering light so blinding it seemed opaque, tangible.

I thought it was impossible, there was no way anyway could be as beautiful as those words claimed. I wondered how someone can love another for all these years, even after his departure.

Then I began to understand. It wasn’t just love. It was a bond, a cosmic tie that joined my grandfather and Shu, the man with the pink hair from the photo. And nothing, not even time, could sever that bond. That was why Nazuna had hidden the album away, why he had confined himself to this house, why he had kept himself away from all of his old friends, despite what he really wanted. I think that, though he would never admit it, he was afraid. At first, he was afraid what his decision had done to Shu. Then, of what he may think of him.

I remembered the man with mismatched eyes, Mika, whose name I had learned when he came up to the at the funeral wearing a suit with cuffs the color of the letters’ ink.

He wasn’t angry at Nazuna for leaving, I thought, he was angry at himself for not being able to make him stay.

And Shu. Perhaps his illness had finally made him realize that he didn’t have a lot of time left. Maybe, he thought he’d have all the time in the world and when he realized he didn’t, those letters he had accumulated over decades suddenly became something he needed to tell the world. Something he needed to tell Nazuna.

Those words were his way of immortalizing Nazuna, and if he keeps them away for too long, the paper, too, would crumble with time. And, more than anything else, Shu wanted to preserve the one thing he had loved more than his art. He wanted to hold on to Nazuna, who, to him, was the very embodiment of art.

When I finished the letters Mika gave me, I looked for the letters Nazuna got. I found them tucked neatly into the drawers of the desk in his study. The wrinkles on the papers were smoothed out by careful hands. On more than a few, I spotted small watermarks. I imagined my grandfather reading through these letters, feeling strangled by the decision he once made that drove apart him and the one he had loved.

I put the letters, along with the album, into the small chest in the corner of my room that contained things I will be taking with me when I move out of the house.

Mika had sent me a letter a week after the funeral, inviting me to go visit him and Shu. They lived in a city down south, where I had lived for a while when I was young. I agreed to go immediately. As I sat down on the train to head down to the city, I felt a rush of wind through the crack in the window, a tingle in the back of my mind. For a few moments, I let myself believe it was Nazuna, whispering into my ears things he wishes he could have told Shu.

I don’t think I would ever find out what prompted Nazuna to leave Shu and marry my grandmother. I don’t think I am privy to the information. That is something in the past, locked in a box whose key I do not have the right to hold. I don’t think I would bring that up during my visit. It is best to leave the past where it belongs.

But I think I would tell Shu that Nazuna had treasured the gift he sent more than anything else. That he had read those letters so many times the folds in the papers were almost gone. That he had picked up painting. I think I would tell him that the last painting Nazuna ever did was a painting of the two of them, standing on the field of starlight, more beautiful than my words could ever hope to convey.

—

_But were some child of yours alive that time,_

_You should live twice, in it, and in my rhyme._

—

*from Darraðarljóð, a song from the Icelandic saga Njáls Saga, about the valkyries appearing to predict the end of a battle


End file.
